Every time I walked into that room, the woman in that damn painting was staring at me. Every day, I saw something in that painting that I hadn't noticed before. I had inherited the ugly thing and couldn’t throw it away, sell it, or give it away—the family would raise a fuss. So I put it in the room I didn’t use much; then found out that I really did go into that room a lot. I had to put it out every time the family came around—and it was heavy and awkward to move so this room was just an easier place to keep it.
One day, the woman’s hand had moved, and there was a knife beside the bowl of fruit on the table that had NOT been there before—I swear, it had not been there. I backed out of the room and slammed the door shut—hopefully I wouldn’t have to go back in there any time soon. But inevitably I had to host another family dinner and put that hideous painting out where they could all see it. I started to pick it up, and noticed that the woman’s hand had moved again, this time hovering just over the knife. Cold shivers ran over me.
The family of course mentioned how wonderful the damnable painting was. I couldn’t wait for them to leave and get it back in the spare room. But when I hung it, I gasped. Now, the woman’s hand was literally ON that knife. Panic is an understatement.
I wouldn’t go back into that room for several days. When I did, I tried to not look at it—but my eyes were drawn to it. She was staring at me from every angle, and the knife was no longer on the table, but held in a firm grip in her hand and pointed directly at me. I ran from that room in sheer terror.
Now I knew what was happening—she was going to kill me. If she could move and pick up that knife, and hold it in her hand, the next time I had to move that painting, she was going to stab me to death. I lay awake all night, trying to figure out what to do.
I didn’t eat or sleep for days, and I wouldn’t go back into that room until I figured out what to do. I didn’t answer phone calls or knocks on the door. Family was worried--but I had to be alone to stop this thing.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor when my sister came through a window because I wouldn’t answer the door. The painting was in shreds, and the woman’s knife was in MY hand. My sister screamed and dialed 911. The men in the white coats, I have to say, were very gentle with me, and I think one of them believed me—that I had no choice, it was either me or the painting.
One day, the woman’s hand had moved, and there was a knife beside the bowl of fruit on the table that had NOT been there before—I swear, it had not been there. I backed out of the room and slammed the door shut—hopefully I wouldn’t have to go back in there any time soon. But inevitably I had to host another family dinner and put that hideous painting out where they could all see it. I started to pick it up, and noticed that the woman’s hand had moved again, this time hovering just over the knife. Cold shivers ran over me.
The family of course mentioned how wonderful the damnable painting was. I couldn’t wait for them to leave and get it back in the spare room. But when I hung it, I gasped. Now, the woman’s hand was literally ON that knife. Panic is an understatement.
I wouldn’t go back into that room for several days. When I did, I tried to not look at it—but my eyes were drawn to it. She was staring at me from every angle, and the knife was no longer on the table, but held in a firm grip in her hand and pointed directly at me. I ran from that room in sheer terror.
Now I knew what was happening—she was going to kill me. If she could move and pick up that knife, and hold it in her hand, the next time I had to move that painting, she was going to stab me to death. I lay awake all night, trying to figure out what to do.
I didn’t eat or sleep for days, and I wouldn’t go back into that room until I figured out what to do. I didn’t answer phone calls or knocks on the door. Family was worried--but I had to be alone to stop this thing.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor when my sister came through a window because I wouldn’t answer the door. The painting was in shreds, and the woman’s knife was in MY hand. My sister screamed and dialed 911. The men in the white coats, I have to say, were very gentle with me, and I think one of them believed me—that I had no choice, it was either me or the painting.
